Shamblers: the zombie apocalypse (2 page)

“Whatever you say, boss,” Marcus chuckled and punched me in the shoulder. I slugged him back for good measure.

“You hit like a pussy,” he told me.

I was about to r
espond but Becky interjected, “how about cutting your little tea party short and you both help to fix the fence? In case you’ve forgotten, we have a crisis. Your male bravado bullshit isn’t going to solve it.”

“Fair enough,” I added. Marcus shrugged. Together, we headed over to check on the breach.

Chapter Three

Our chain-link fence, with its three, parallel, barbed wire strands along the top, had certainly seen better days. It had once been one, formidable barrier against the zombie incursion. Now, it was more like three separate fences that had been knitted together. Zombies continued to come along and beat down or tear through weak points. We continued to repair it with whatever supplies we could get our hands on. It wasn’t exactly a stellar setup, and by no means was it permanent, but it was all we could manage for now.

When Marcus and I showed up to help repair
our beleaguered perimeter fence, I saw that three members of our party were already busy at work. They were presently hoisting a six-foot tall, metal, chain-link section back into place. Two, dark-haired Spanish men in their early twenties were holding the fence section in place. A third man (he was white and in his forties) was using a band of copper wire to tie the broken pieces of the fence back together.

I’
d only met the white man yesterday. I think his name was Rob -or maybe Ted. Either way, I was pretty sure that he’d been a school teacher back in the day. His hair was salt-and-peppered and he had a beard that was turning white. He seemed friendly enough.

T
he two Spanish guys had arrived the day before. I hadn’t had a chance to speak to them yet, so I knew nothing about either one. There was even a real good chance they were, in fact, Mexican (not that it mattered to me one way or the other). They definitely spoke Spanish. The shorter one was presently giving his friend directions that I couldn’t understand as they worked on the fence.

I
was glad to see that all three men were putting themselves to good use: we couldn’t afford idle hands at a time like this.

While they worked, sever
al other men and women nearby acted as sentries. Each person held their own clubbed weapon: from bats and hockey sticks, to batons, wooden dowels, and boards with large nails hammered through them, each sentry was ready to beat a zombie’s ass if need be.

Our camp had been
first settled about two weeks earlier by me, Marcus, the two soldiers from my Humvee, and the two men who’d been sharing the RV with Marcus.

Our little posse had
arrived at an old, fenced-in lumberyard with a warehouse and discovered it was unoccupied. We unanimously decided it was a decent place to settle down. This was mostly because our small, rag-tag band had been in desperate need of rest: the RV had been overrun so we’d spent an entire month moving to a different place each night.

The lumberyard was a Godsend.
The warehouse had an attached office space (which made it great for getting out of the weather). We also figured that we could secure the yard sufficiently to protect us long-term (we were still working on that). Furthermore, the area was large enough we could someday grow decent crops to eat. Finally, there was an abundance of lumber lying around; it would be useful for future building projects.

Since we settled the area
, we had sporadically used much of that lumber to build makeshift shelters, weapons, tables, or defenses. We had actually found that an 8’ 2x4 made a great weapon for killing zombies! The sturdy beams were heavy, had a great reach, and could also be used in teams to hold a zombie down so someone could get in a good headshot.

Of course,
it’s worth mentioning that the only surviving members of our founding group were now me and Marcus. Things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. As fate would have it, our site was so desirable that new people flocked to it. As these new people sought refuge with us, they were often trailed by zombies.

Once we had de
alt with each new wave of zombies, we tried to sort out who among the new arrivals was an asset and who was either useless or a potential threat. All this political shit and decision making had deterred us from our initial plan of making a solid, defensible place to live.

“How’s it going here, guys?” I ask
ed the men who were repairing the fence.

“Hola señ
or, we’re getting by,” the younger-looking of the Spanish men answered. “I think we’ll get this fence repaired within the hora.”

I nodded. “That’s good,” I told him, “
because there isn’t much daylight left. Do you guys need anything?”

He stood up and scratched his pencil-thin mustache. “
Gracias, but no. We have mucho support already.” He smiled at me and gave me a thumbs-up.

I smiled back as I encouraged him,
“keep up the good work, my friend. You’re doing the camp proud!”

I turned away and walked further down the length of the fence to check for any other trouble spots. The moment that we were
beyond earshot of the other workers, Marcus muttered to me, “man, we have
way
too many of those dirty fucking spicks here. I hope those lazy fuckers don’t fuck that fence up. I really don’t feel like dying from someone else’s shoddy fucking work.”

I scowled at him.
“Hey, easy man,” I said with irritation, “those guys have done nothing to you. Plus, they’re both really good workers.” I pointed with my thumb back over my shoulder to the Spanish men. “You saw them out there. They’re doing more hard work than fucking Martin, for Christ’s sake. As far as I know, they’ve been helping out since the minute they came to camp. You can’t see how grateful they are that they have a place to stay?”

“I don’t trust ‘em,”
Marcus let me know as he glanced back warily over his shoulder, “and I don’t trust any fucking niggers, Jews, or Canadians either.”

My jaw dropped.
“You’re just a racist prick who doesn’t trust anyone,” I told him. I’d had a great-aunt who was both Jewish and Canadian before she’d been zombified. I was rather offended by his callous remarks. Not to mention that I had grown up with Spanish friends in Bakersfield, and had nothing against any black people. In my view, people of all races could be annoying at times, but that wasn’t cause to cast dispersions on entire groups.

Marcus laughed
like a total asshole. “Yea, some things will never change. I think this apocalypse has really changed me for the worse,” he laughed again.

“I think you were always like that.”

“Maybe, but with good cause,” he assured me. I somehow got the impression that his idea of ‘good cause’ was different from my own. “I didn’t have much faith in humanity before. I have even less faith now that the world has shit the bed,” he said.

“Maybe you should go talk to The Preacher?” I suggested.

“Fuck The Preacher,” he said as he swatted at a mosquito. “The guy isn’t a real man of the cloth anyway, and if he were than I say fuck him double hard. Just look around us, Nick – look at all the good that God has done for humanity. What a crock of shit.”

Marcus made a decent point, but I didn’t feel like debating religion with him. The man we referred to was one of the first people who arrived at our new camp, just days after we got settled. He was si
mply referred to as The Preacher. He had showed up with his own group, though most of them were now dead. The ones who were left deferred to him. They treated him like some sort of messiah.

The Preacher dressed like a priest, white-collar and all. In addition, he always wore
a solid-gold cross around his neck. Although he looked the role, his followers claimed that he had simply stolen the items when they looted a church. Nonetheless, he played the part well: he went on and on about the wrath of God, and the love of Jesus, and all that stuff. He even looked saintly, with clean-cut, close-shaven gray hair, a kind face, and a calm and personable demeanor. His religious zealotry got a bit annoying, but I soon learned that the man was one of the best zombie killers I had ever seen, so I could tolerate some religious bullshit.

The thing I really respected about The Preacher was that h
e never strayed from a fight. Whenever the perimeter alert went out, he could be found rushing to the front. I had watched him single handedly rip the head off a zombie as he had simultaneously prayed for its soul. When you witness a man do something like that, it changes your perception of them.

“Out of everyone in camp, I think he scares me the most,” I confided in Marcus as we walked over to the area where the main office was located.

“He’s out of his fucking gourd, that’s for God-damned,” Marcus replied. “You should be scared of him.”

We reached the main door to the office. It had originally been a two-paned, glass door that led to the
lumberyard’s customer service area. It was now covered with plywood, reinforced with 2x4’s, and securely locked. I rapped on the door.

A mome
nt later a gruff voice answered, “passcode.”

“Commodore,” I stated.

As an extra precaution, we decided to have a passcode for the office. We changed it once a week. It was commodore this week. Don’t ask me why, someone just thought of it and no one cared enough to argue. I heard a bolt being undone and the door pushed open. Marcus and I went inside. 

The guy guarding the door this time was, of all people, The Preacher.

“God be with you my sons,” he smiled as we entered.

“Hey Preacher,” I greeted him.

Marcus grunted and nodded.

“I heard that three souls have been laid to eternal rest after the recent attack,” The Preacher said, “it is quite sad
and I shall pray they meet the Lord.”

“I think they already met him,” I joked, “but yes, we lost three people. That’s why we
’re here: we need to have a general vote about banishing the scavenger who led the zombies back here.”

“Did the lord not say, I was a stranger but you welcome
d me?” The Preacher replied. I didn’t have the slightest fucking clue what he meant.

“I
don’t have the slightest fucking clue what you mean,” I answered, “but if you’re saying you don’t want to kick him, save your breath for the official vote.”

“I will,” he informed me, “now hand over your we
apons. You know the procedure.”

One of our established rules was that no weapons were allowed inside the conference room. This was done in case tempers got out of control: people were quick to pull guns o
n one another nowadays.

I
handed over my empty .40 cal and holster and Marcus handed over his bat. Both items were stored for safe keeping along the far wall behind The Preacher. With that done, we walked past The Preacher and into the conference room. At least a dozen other people were already present. Becky and Martin were amongst them.

“Hey
Mr. Steiner, hey Mr. Gray,” a thin, blonde woman of about twenty five said with a cheery smile. She had way too much makeup on, especially eye-liner. It was purple, and frankly I thought she looked like a whore. But I guess she thought she looked good.

“Hey, uhhh
…you,” I greeted her. I didn’t even feel like taking a stab at her name.

“Olivia,” she let me know
. There was the slightest hint of irritation in her voice.

Oh, great. So there was actually an Olivia. Now I was getting really confused. I made a mental note: Olivia equal
ed the dumb, blonde whore. The brunette was Becky. Both words began with a B. If I could remember that word association I could remember who Becky was. I was improving. “Yes, that’s right -Olivia,” I smiled as I pretended to care.

“Are you guys here to vote about Timothy?
We were just discussing his fate,” she inquired with a sad look on her makeup-drenched whore-face.

“Who?” I asked.

“The scout we sent out today. People are saying that he led the shamblers back here. Well, Becky was saying it. I don’t know if it’s true. Anyway, Becky said we were going to vote if we should kick him once enough people are present.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” I answered
and rubbed the back of my head. Even Olivia’s manner of speaking annoyed me. It was like she was always seeking approval or something.

“Well, what the fuck!
” Marcus exclaimed. “Let’s fucking vote already, I’m sick of talking about this fucker! I’ll start this shit out: one vote to toss him on his ass. Want me to mark it on a chalk-board or something?”

“Jesus, Marcus,” Becky scolded
in a serious tone, “you don’t have to be such an insensitive dick all the time -this is a guy’s life we’re deciding.”

Marcus snorted. He glared at Becky and I could tell he wanted to give her an earful, but he was actually smart enoug
h to hold his tongue this time.

“Would you please not use the name of the Lord in vain?”
The Preacher piped up. Becky and Marcus both shot exasperated glances at him. He wisely didn’t press the issue and, instead, got to the matter at hand, “I also vote for Timothy’s removal. It is the practical thing to do. It sets an example for the others.” He looked at me next. He had surely thrown me for a loop. I had expected him to vote against Timothy’s exile.

“I guess I’m up,” I said.
I bit my lower lip for a moment then replied, “I also vote to kick him. We can’t have this kind of carelessness.” I looked to my right as I finished. It was Martin’s turn.